


Nothing Special

by moodymarshmallow



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Sharing Clothes, prompted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2017-12-20 02:43:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moodymarshmallow/pseuds/moodymarshmallow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Varric might be all about Bianca, but Hawke is more interested in his leather jacket.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Special

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by Taokan on Tumblr

For all the scrapes he got into at Hawke's side, all the darkspawn blood and dragon viscera, all the sand and grit from the Wounded Coast and various caves, Varric Tethras managed to keep his jacket remarkably clean. It was a wonder how Marian always arrived at the Hanged Man to find Varric scrubbed, well shaven, and smelling of freshly oiled leather, especially when they’d only returned to Lowtown an hour before, sweaty and covered in Darktown filth.

“A man has to keep himself in top form when he’s in the company of such a gorgeous woman,” Varric said as he sat across from Marian at the low, dwarven-made table, a snifter of brandy held loosely in one big, deft hand. “Why, it’d be downright disrespectful for me to let myself go.”

Marian favored him with a dubious smile, slicing a honey roasted fig into quarters before spearing a piece with her fork. “This is all for my sake, is it?”

“Please, I’d never hear the end of it from my family if I allowed myself to be seen at anything less than my best.”

“And here I thought you misplaced your dwarven pride along with your beard,” Marian teased.

“I knew you had a sharp memory, but I didn’t think you were copying down all my best lines. You wouldn’t happen to be writing your own book without telling me about it, now would you?”

“Perish the thought,” she said. “How would I ever compete with the prolific author of ‘Hard in Hightown’?”

“You joke, messere, but I’ll have you know I’ve sold enough copies to warrant a third printing. I could always get you a signed copy if you’re willing to admit my genius.” He sat back in his chair, swirling the dark brandy around in its snifter.

“Is that the occasion for this lavish feast?” Marian asked, inclining her head towards the roast on the table between them.

“Oh this? This is just something Corff threw together at the last minute when he heard I was dining with the Champion of Kirkwall. Nothing special.”

“Liar. That’s roast mutton, and there are two things you can’t fool a Fereldan about--mutton and mabari. You’ve been planning this for at least a day. Don’t get me started on the quail either; plucking those alone would have taken hours.” Marian smirked, proudly lifting her nose. “You’re either trying to impress me, or this, Messere Tethras, is a date.”

A warm smile spread slowly over Varric’s wide face and he put the squat glass to his lips, taking a long sip of the thick, ruddy drink, watching it stick to the sides of the glass as he placed it back on the table.

“I’m afraid you’ve found me out,” he said. “What a cad I am, inviting a beautiful woman over for a nice dinner. Why, you should have brought a bodyguard to keep yourself safe from my wily ways. Who’s to stop me from throwing you onto this table and having my way despite you, and your staff, and all those fires you like to start.”

“To think I let myself be lured into such a dastardly trap.” Marian feigned a swoon, putting the back of her wrist to her forehead. “Who will solve all of Kirkwall’s problems if I submit to your horrible scheme of feeding me mutton and figs.” She sat forward and rested her chin in her hands. “I do love getting to spend time with you alone, Varric. No brooding, no manifestos, just me and the most handsome dwarf in all of Kirkwall.”

“Always such a flatterer,” Varric said with a smile. “Not that I’d ever ask you to stop.”

“You know, Varric, I was wondering,” Marian began, lifting herself to her feet to walk around the table. “How is it that I come home covered in the blood of our unfortunate enemies, and your coat is always spotless?”

“Range, my lady, range,” he answered. “Bianca keeps me out of the fray and I keep my jacket clean, it’s a beautiful partnership.”

Marian reached out and touched his lapel, rubbing the supple leather between her fingers.

“I don’t know. I think there might be something special about this coat.” Leaning against the table, she smiled down at him. “You don’t think that I could possibly try it on, do you?”

“Well.” Varric coughed into his fist, then cleared his throat. “I can’t see the harm in that.” Sliding back his chair he stood, shrugging off his leather duster and offering it to Marian. “Just be gentle with the stitching around the arms. It’s a custom piece, after all.”

“Is there somewhere private I could change?”

“I could escort you to my bedroom, if you’re convinced my motives are pure, of course.”

“No need, I know where it is.” With the jacket draped over her arm she crossed the small room to the door to his bedroom, favoring him with a wink before sliding through the door.

Crossing his arms over his broad chest, Varric shook his head and stared down at the wooden slats beneath his feet. “Whatever you like, Hawke,” he murmured softly, smiling.

“Varric?” Marian asked from behind the closed door. “Why don’t you come see how it looks?”

With a raised brow he glanced at the door, looking at it curiously for a moment before walking up to it and pushing it open. It took all of his composure not to gasp at the sight behind it.

Marian Hawke was wearing the jacket, but there wasn’t a stitch of clothing underneath it. She sat on the edge of his bed, long legs crossed, the drape of the brown leather on her skin just enough to cover her breasts while leaving her belly and thighs exposed. For a moment he just stared, heart thundering in his chest, trying, and failing, for once, to think of the perfect thing to say.

“I suppose it just doesn’t look as good on me, does it?” Marian asked, her voice just on the edge of nervous.

Varric shook his head kindly, smiling as he closed the door behind him and crossed the room.

"Marian, my dear, there aren't a lot of dwarves that believe in the Maker, but I know a miracle when I see one.” He brushed his hand over her cheek, smiling when she covered it with her own. “I may just have to convert."

 


End file.
